


A World So Newly Born

by LiraelClayr007



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Alternating, the morning after the world didn't end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 02:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19122655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: Aziraphale opens his eyes in an unfamiliar room.Grey walls, not much light… Right. He stayed at Crowley’s flat last night. The world didn’t end, but the bookshop…In the dim light he sees red hair--familiar red hair--just a few centimeters away. And feels a cool body pressed against his chest.Oh.





	A World So Newly Born

Aziraphale opens his eyes in an unfamiliar room.

Grey walls, not much light… Right. He stayed at Crowley’s flat last night. The world didn’t end, but the bookshop…

In the dim light he sees red hair-- _ familiar _ red hair--just a few centimeters away. And feels a cool body pressed against his chest.

_ Oh. _

Crowley. He’s in bed with Crowley. His arm is draped across Crowley’s torso, pulling the lanky demon snugly to his chest.

He’d spent the night with Crowley.

Not that he’d  _ spent the night _ with Crowley. There’d been rather a lot of what these English folk call snogging, and their hands had explored a bit, but this morning they’re still wearing their pyjamas. Though Crowley seems to have lost his shirt at some point--did Aziraphale do that? He can’t seem to remember. Although he does remember kissing Crowley’s neck more than once. Can one leave marks on the neck of a demon? His face flushes, awash with memories.

Apparently six thousand years dancing around each other isn’t quite enough foreplay.

There’s a warmth inside Aziraphale. It’s been growing there for centuries, though he hadn’t truly realized until the blitz. Not enough to save his life, Crowley had also saved the books. The books! “A little demonic miracle of my own,” he’d said. And the glow deep down in Aziraphale had welled up to overflowing, like stepping into the sun after months of rain. If Crowley had been watching he’d surely have seen.

But Crowley had already been walking away.

Without moving Aziraphale lets his eyes take in every bit of Crowley he can see--the disheveled hair, the curve of his neck, the lightly freckled shoulders. Crowley has freckles! It takes every bit of his willpower not to laugh with delight. They’ve never done this before, this waking up together thing, but Aziraphale instinctively knows Crowley isn’t a morning being. He takes even breaths, revelling in the scent of Crowley all around him, willing himself to be still. Best to let Crowley sleep.

. + . + . + .

Crowley wakes slowly, feeling comfortable. Warm.

_ Loved. _

Aziraphale. He’s being held by  _ Aziraphale. _

He’d been longing for this for centuries. More than centuries. But he’d never truly let himself hope--being a demon, he’s always known the follies of hope. Hope isn’t the glorious thing the angels extol; no, hope leads almost exclusively to disappointment and pain. How many times had he exploited that in the humans around him? So he’d forced himself to be content with being with his best friend--and calling him nothing more than “best friend”, even to himself--whenever he could, and being there to rescue him as often as possible. Because that’s what friends do, right? Rescue each other from untimely discorporation and unnecessary paperwork?

What a fool he’d been. Dinners at the Ritz, feeding the ducks at the park, drinking wine at the bookshop--how could he have ever thought that was enough? It had all been good, to be near Aziraphale, to be with him was always the goal--but actually  _ kissing _ him, and falling asleep together, and waking up like this… Overall, it’s like driving the Bentley after a lifetime of driving a tricycle.

He can’t ever go back.

All this goes through his mind in less than three seconds, after which he unconsciously pushes himself closer to Aziraphale, who hums with contentment. “Good morning,” he says into Crowley’s shoulder. After a pause the shoulder is peppered with kisses.

“What’s that, then,” says Crowley, his voice rough with sleep.

Aziraphale actually giggles. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up so I could kiss your freckles.”

Crowley bristles, slightly more awake. “I don’t have freckles.”

“Yes you have, and they’re just precious. Every last one.”

Precious? Did Aziraphale just call his (clearly imaginary) freckles  _ precious _ ? He might be kissing an angel now--and, ah, hoping for more in the future--but he hasn’t turned into a pile of marshmallows, for Satan’s sake!

“Now see here, I’m still a demon!” He rolls over still in Aziraphale’s arms, the better to make his point face to face. “You can’t just go saying things like that! I’ve got a reputata--”

Aziraphale stops him with a kiss.

A few minutes later, both of them slightly more rumpled than before, Crowley says, “So is that how it’s going to go from now on? When you want me to stop talking you just shut me up with a kiss?”

Aziraphale kisses the tip of his nose. “Quite likely.”

“Argh,” says Crowley, but his mouth quirks up in a smile. “I’m...I’m actually all for that.” His smile widens, and with a wink he says, “But you know that’s pretty much a guarantee I’m going to get even more obnoxious, right?”

Patting him on the cheek, Aziraphale says, “Oh, I think I can handle you, Crowley.”

Before Crowley can respond Aziraphale slips out of bed and out the door, announcing brightly that he’s “off to put the kettle on!”

Crowley flops back on the bed, slightly bewildered. “He can handle me?” Then he hurries to follow. It’s too early to be awake and out of bed--he doesn’t actually know what time it is, he only declares it too early on principle--but this whatever-it-is with Aziraphale is too new for Crowley to want to be separated.  _ Sentiment, Crowley? _ he chides himself. But he’s grown accustomed to ignoring himself over the millenia, and easily pushes this thought aside.

Leaning on the kitchen doorway, Crowley takes in the all too domestic sight of Aziraphale making tea. Crowley knows there had been no tea in the cupboard, and the shiny copper kettle looks strikingly similar to one he’s seen countless times in the bookshop kitchenette. There are also scones--actual blueberry scones--in the oven.

“A little early morning miracle-making?” Crowley drawls.

Aziraphale jumps, then titters. “Ah, well, there wasn’t much to work with here. What did you expect me to serve, freshly brewed houseplant?”

From the corner of his eye, Crowley sees the plants begin to shiver. His eyebrows draw down. “Best stay away from my houseplants, angel.” The leaves still.

_ And now I’m standing up for the plants. They’re going to think I’ve gone soft. It’ll be spots all around by next week. _

“Scones will be done in a tick,” Aziraphale says as the teakettle whistles.

“You’re miracling everything else, why not finish the scones now?”

Aziraphale turns, a hand on his hip. “Honestly, Crowley, you have no respect for craftsmanship. They taste  _ much _ better made the old-fashioned way.”

Crowley takes in the sight of pyjama-clad Aziraphale in his kitchen, making tea and scolding him. He can’t help but marvel at the whole thing. Then he catches sight of something out of place, something that makes him grin. He saunters into the kitchen, close enough to wrap an arm around Aziraphale’s waist.

“You’ve got feathers in your hair, angel.”

Flustered, Aziraphale says, “Yes, well, that will happen sometimes. Wings, you know. Feathers everywhere.”

Drawing them even closer together, Crowley says, “I know. Happens to me all the time. But these--” he plucks one out of Aziraphale’s hair and holds it in front of his face, his voice low and his lips almost touching the angel’s ear, “--are black. These are  _ mine _ .”

Aziraphale licks his lips. “That… Well, that’s certainly never happened before.”

And before Crowley can say anything, Aziraphale turns his face to him, so they are only a breath apart. Crowley forgets to breathe, then remembers he doesn’t actually require breath. Good thing.

“There are probably white feathers in your bed, you know,” Aziraphale says. “And there will likely be more. I mean to say, the bookshop is gone, and I don’t have anywhere else to go at the moment. Although I suppose I could sleep on the sof--mmm”

His words are lost in a low hum of pleasure when Crowley finally stops his rambling on with a kiss.

. + . + . + .

Before long the kitchen is well-stocked with food and tea.

Not long after that there are both white and black feathers everywhere. Unavoidable, really, with both an angel and a demon in the flat.

Aziraphale does not sleep on the sofa.

Crowley finds the occasional spot on his houseplants, but he always frightens them back into submission again. They never make the mistake of thinking he’s gone soft.

Which, of course, he has.

Just a bit.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from '39 by Queen.
> 
> I'm completely overwhelmed by the response I've gotten to the Aziraphale/Crowley one-shots I've written over the past few days. Thank you so much, all of you: for reading, for leaving kudos, for leaving comments. All my other WIPs are being neglected (not forever, and not completely, but at least a tad!) but I can't help it, I just love these two dorks entirely too much.
> 
> 😇😈

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [【授权翻译】一个刚刚诞生的新世界](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19163704) by [LENxA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LENxA/pseuds/LENxA)




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